Last words…
So, you just finished reading Infinite Jest and now you’re trying to make sense of the much lauded comedy. It’s likely that you’re confused and just bursting with disappointment. You read the last page and you sat for a few split seconds contemplating Bimmy’s indestructible body sinking into the rain-soaked beach before you hawked a loogie on the book’s cover. However, IJ is NOT about the plot; it is a meta novel about ideas. This is the true genius of the gargantuan tome; it was purposely written in a manner that does not allow a clear ending to be extrapolated from the 1,079 pages of data.
Unsurprisingly, the Samizdat (J.O.I.’s Infinite Jest VI) was a blatant metaphor for Wallace’s Infinite Jest. Neither the plot of Infinite Jest nor the plot of the Samizdat are ever fully explained. The novel’s symbolism is overt and the themes are heavy handed (abuse, addiction, annulation, depression, entertainment/mass media, solitude), just as J.O.I.’s films are described as having a thematic bluntness (depression, entertainment, grief, infidelity, pain, solitude) by the fictitious critics of the novel’s universe. Both Wallace and J.O.I. use anti-confluentalism and are regarded as virtuosic in their respective arts. Trying to make sense of IJ’s expansive realm and to formulate a fitting conclusion is tantamount to writing an ebullient review of Incandenza’s “found drama.” DFW’s prose is technically golden, but he is an ineffective storyteller; just as Incandenza was a technical genius with optics, but was criticized for his plot development. Infinite Jest can be opened from any page and enjoyed as if the book were a series of short stories that happen to have common characters. This is why Wallace seemingly makes errors with dates and certain near-homophones that do not appear to be on character’s behalf; it makes no difference because the abundant details and incongruities serve only as an elaborate ruse formulated for confusion. Readers are supposed to believe that they missed some hidden key to unlock the meaning of IJ; this inspires a rereading. This book is simply too long (and let’s face it, silly) for more than one reading.
In the novel, individuals that view the Samizdat are consumed by its euphoria-inducing properties and become trapped in a cataleptic state continually re-watching the film until they slough their mortal coils in front of the screen. IJ was designed to dupe the reader into believing that it needs to be reread. The Wraith is a red-herring deviously concocted to allow the mental gymnastics, on behalf of the reader, that make this book the genius achievement that it is. The Wraith functions as a deus ex machina to be contemplated by the reader. Wallace wrote IJ with the intention to make the reader believe that the story must be reviewed to be fully understood, yet all the reader must understand is the hilarity of IJ; it is little more than a series of crudely linked jokes within technically superb sentences.
What then of the various theories that claim to unify the 1,079 pages of brilliant and excruciating detail under a decisive conclusion? Under close examination, none of the theories that I have encountered are complete. Even the best theories that I have read lack the elegance and lucidity required to properly explain this novel. Thanks to all of the poor souls that hashed out absurdly esoteric theories regarding the novels denouement, I was able to devise this theory with only one reading under my belt.
The concept Wallace intended to confer with the title is that the entire plot is a meta-joke — a phantasm that can only be interpreted to make sense once an individual internalizes the book and theorizes what could have happened. Almost everyone that reads IJ can find a unique conclusion to the plot beyond the last page. However, there is too much missing information to confirm any plot theory that fills in the gaps.
Readers should understand from the start that IJ is a massive novel (seemingly Infinite during one’s immersion) and it is all a joke (Jest). I believe that DFW crafted the novel as such to instill the feelings of isolation experienced by most of the characters. The book is analogous to a drug that beckons the user back with the illusion that something more will be experienced upon the next use. This book really has no message beyond its representations of comedic anguish, only motifs and information; a nod to the confusion about patterns in life, which must have wracked Wallace’s (likely manic) brain before he committed suicide.